


Healing Hands

by Elton_J0hn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1796890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elton_J0hn/pseuds/Elton_J0hn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is injured during a particularly messy case, and Sherlock offers to nurse him back to health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Hands

It was the repetitive beep of machines that first caught John Watson’s attention as he awoke. Familiar, high pitched rings, the distant clink of curtains being pulled and pairs of feet walking hurriedly on a hard floor. He was listening to the sounds of a hospital. 

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as pain began to hit him; aches in every muscle of his body, his head pounding. He took a deep breath and felt sharp pains shooting from his ribs, sending shock waves through his whole body. He gritted his teeth and began to raise an arm to rub the sleep from his eyes; his fingers and palm were greeted with wet lashes. He opened them slowly with a groan. He was faced with a blurry white ceiling, and as his eyes adjusted, white walls, machines covered in flashing lights and wires that were attached to him. He heard the shuffle of a chair from the other side of his bed and turned his neck slowly. A tall, coated figure had stood and was peering over him. His features began to come into focus through John's blurred vision; piercing blue eyes, eyebrows bent into a concerned frown. The lines under the man’s eyes indicated a lack of sleep. Thick, messy curls lay unkept on the man’s head. John felt a tug on his heart at the familiar face, a reassurance in his confusion. 

"John?" His voice was soft, an urgent and hopeful whisper from his friend as he leaned closer. 

"Sherlock?" John managed, voice strained, coughing with a burn in his throat. 

Sherlock's eyes were darting across the face of his best friend as he coughed and winced in pain. 

"What...happened?" John struggled, looking up at the man beside him.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and stared at the man lying in the hospital bed, standing up straight. "You have two fractured ribs, a broken arm, a sprained ankle and various bruises." he stated, matter of fact. "You've been unconscious for sixteen hours and thirty five minutes. You were brought here to Barts for treatment and have been recovering since.”

John was silent for a moment, taking in the list of his injuries. “How?”

Sherlock had dreaded this moment. He looked down at the floor as his voice lowered. “I…made a mistake, John. I misjudged a situation and ended up putting you in danger.” His voice was full of guilt and anger. “I underestimated the case and the people involved, and now you’re lying in a hospital bed.”

John had so many questions that he didn’t know where to begin, and the reality of the situation was beginning to hit him. He looked up at Sherlock and felt water filling his eyes at the physical pain and confusion of it all. He lifted his arm and stretched his hand towards Sherlock. The tall man stared down at John’s hand, a small tube attached to it, dripping fluid into his system. 

“What is it? What do you need?” Sherlock asked, looking around the bedside for an item John may be attempting to reach. After a quick scan of the empty room Sherlock concluded that the outstretched hand was reaching for him. He tentatively took the vulnerable man’s hand and allowed him to keep a light hold of it as he closed his eyes and lost himself in thought. 

John’s mind was clouded with pain killers and confusion. He should be angry at Sherlock for hospitalizing him, Sherlock thought. He should leave the man in peace now he has awoken and allow him to think. After a moment, Sherlock pulled his hand from John’s light grip and took a step backwards. “I will tell the nurse that you’re awake.” he said, not looking at John. 

 

A taxi pulled up outside 221B Baker Street late that evening and out jumped Sherlock Holmes. He skipped speedily around the vehicle and opened the cab door wide as John manoeuvred himself slowly out, gripping Sherlock’s shoulder with his right arm, his other wrapped up in plaster. Sherlock pushed the cab door shut and reached carefully around John’s waist, minding not to knock his injured ribs. They slowly made their way to their flat, taking a break at the front door as Sherlock fumbled for his keys. Each step up to their flat was agonizing for John as he trod carefully on his sprained ankle, trying to walk for himself rather than pull down on Sherlock. When they reached their living room, Sherlock placed John delicately in his chair, and they both sighed, exhausted. 

“Tea?” Sherlock asked, slightly breathless from carrying John up the stairs.

“Something stronger. There’s whiskey in the cupboard.” John replied, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the chair. 

Sherlock returned to the living room with two large glasses of Whiskey and placed one in the smaller man’s hand. He settled himself in his chair opposite his injured flatmate and the men sat for a long while, silently sipping at their liquor. 

“You should take my room for the time being,” Sherlock suggested, finally breaking the silence. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. You won’t get up and down those stairs to your room.”

John hummed in agreement. “Thanks.” He looked around the flat and sighed, draining his glass. Sherlock immediately leaped up and offered a refill, and John allowed himself a quiet chuckle. 

John didn’t blame Sherlock for anything that had happened. It was just a case that had got out of hand. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Sherlock was feeling guilty that John had ended up in such a state, that his genius brain had let him down and blamed himself entirely. He had promised to care for him and nurse him back into health, and John wasn’t going to refuse the offer of being spoilt for a few weeks. He accepted the refilled glass of whiskey with a smile. “So, any idea where he got to, the guy that did this?” John indicated to his injured self. 

Sherlock looked at him with a blank face. “He fell out of a fourth storey window. Twice.”

John was shocked into silence. “Sherlock…” 

“Shh. You’re supposed to be resting.” Sherlock’s tone indicated John shouldn’t press the matter any further. They both sipped at their drinks and refilled, Sherlock taking his time with his. John found the warm burn of the whiskey comforting and soothing to his aching body, encouraging Sherlock to pour him another and another throughout the evening.

 

“I think…” John began, eyes closed and slouched in his chair in a comfortable, somewhat drunken state, “that you should take me to bed now, nurse.” He peered out of one eye and laughed quietly. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at his bloggers choice of words. He sighed. John was inebriated and making jokes. He couldn’t blame him, he’d seen how each glass of whiskey had relaxed the man and happily supplied the next, if it eased the pain of the injuries that he was to blame for. He got to his feet and removed the empty glass from John’s hand, placing it on the table next to the half empty whiskey bottle. John reached his good arm up and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the taller man supporting John under the armpits into a standing position. He gripped Sherlock’s shirt and staggered forwards, letting out a cry of pain as his sprained ankle gave way. Sherlock held the smaller man up and allowed him to balance, before they slowly made their way down the corridor and into the bedroom.

Sherlock placed John gently onto the bed and laid his head on the pillow, lifting his legs gently after him. “I’ll be on the sofa if you need me. Just shout.” He turned to walk away, when his flatmate emitted an unsatisfied groan. 

“I can’t sleep like this, Sherlock,” John lifted his head and frowned at his shirt and jeans. “Will you take these off?” he whined and pulled hopelessly at his clothes. 

Sherlock turned back and headed for the bed. Not an unreasonable request. He would have to get used to this for the next few weeks, John really couldn’t do much on his own. He’d have to help him into the bath at some point too, he supposed. The image of John naked jumped into his mind and he shook his head immediately. This was his fault. He now had a responsibility to care for John and he would do whatever that entailed. 

“Sherlock?” 

The detective snapped out of his trance and sat next to John on the bed. “Yes. Uh, sorry. You want your shirt and jeans off. Right.” He nodded at the task and began on the shirt buttons, revealing a tanned chest. He pulled the shirt from the doctor’s free arm first, then very gently out of his left, plaster-cast arm, tossing it on the floor. 

John watched as Sherlock paused, then timidly reached for the doctor’s belt. His long, slender fingers unfastened the item slowly and delicately, and something stirred in John’s pants. God, he was definitely a little bit drunk. 

Sherlock pulled the belt free and discarded it, then looked up at John, desperately hoping that his embarrassment wasn’t showing. 

“It’s alright. I’ll sleep in my jeans if you don’t want to take them off.” John chuckled, seeing the flush of red on Sherlock’s cheeks as he looked at the trouser button. He thought he’d save him the trouble. Plus the fact his erection was growing rapidly and would rather not make it any worse by allowing those delicate hands too close. 

“I said I will take care of you, and that is what I shall do. I’m not embarrassed.” Sherlock said unconvincingly. He frowned at the button and carefully unhooked it, followed by the zipper, all in one swift movement. He eased the jeans off, careful not to knock John’s sprained ankle, popping each sock off as he reached his feet. He looked up to give John a satisfied grin as he dropped the clothes in a heap, but his eyes stopped dead at the bulging boxer shorts. John was definitely, unmistakeably hard as a rock. 

John coughed a little and Sherlock’s eyes shifted about the room, before he turned around and focused on the door. Had he been staring? Was it merely a glance? He couldn’t remember, and the image was imprinted in his mind. He muttered a quick “Goodnight” and exited the room swiftly, pulling the door behind him.

John smiled to himself as the bedroom door closed with a click. Sherlock definitely looked. He should probably feel embarrassed but he was several drinks past that, and his only focus was the task that lay ahead of him. He decided he would wait five minutes, give the detective time to fall asleep on the sofa and then deal with the strain against his boxers.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and stared into the distance. He couldn’t erase the image from his mind of John, so tightly packed in his underwear. At what point had that occurred? Was it a reaction to something? He cursed himself for dwelling on it. He poured himself a small glass from the whiskey bottle left on the table and sipped at it thoughtfully. He was exhausted. It had been a hell of a long two days with very little sleep. He didn’t sleep a wink whilst John was in hospital. Draining his glass, he stood up and headed for the sofa. He lay down; his tall and slim body stretching the length of the furniture, settling in for the night. 

John slid his hand down his belly and eased it under the waistband of his underwear. He was at least thankful that his right hand had come out of the day’s events unscathed. His cold fingers met with the familiar heat of his shaft, and he shuddered at the initial touch. He gripped gently and began slow, rhythmic pumps, relaxing his head back into the pillow.

 

Sherlock’s eyes had barely closed before they shot open again, hearing a loud, painful cry from behind his bedroom door, the sound echoing around the previously silent flat. He jumped to his feet and in a few short strides, arrived at the bedroom door and burst through it. “John? What’s happened, what have you done?” He froze still at the image before him. John was hunched up on the bed, arms clutching his ribs, one hand shoved into his underwear. He was panting, eyes squeezed shut in pain. 

“My ribs...” He breathed, daring to open an eye and look at the still figure of his flatmate above him. “Just knocked my ribs, that’s all.” He let out another groan. He decided to leave out the detail of how he had elbowed himself with great force in his injured ribcage whilst having a frantic drunken wank. Until he realised that his hand was still clutching his aching prick beneath his pants, and Sherlock was staring right at it. 

“I apologise for interrupting,” Sherlock began, eyes not moving from the scene lay infront of him. “I thought you may have… fallen out of bed…” He trailed off. He managed to avert his gaze and turned around on the spot, stepping towards the door. “If you need me for anything, I will be in the next room.”

John watched as the detective began to walk away and he heard himself call out. “Wait…” He began, unsure of how to finish his sentence. Sherlock paused in the doorway and slowly turned around. John pulled his hand from his boxers and Sherlock watched his movement carefully, noticing the glimmer of pre-cum on John’s fingers, shining in the light of the faint streetlamps outside. “I may need your help, just this once…” John looked up at Sherlock with hopeful eyes. The alcohol had brought on a confidence in him that was sure to end in tragedy, but he heard the words leaving his lips regardless. 

Every rational thought in Sherlock’s mind was telling him to retreat, to go and sleep on the sofa and wake up in the morning and this will all go unmentioned. But when it came to John, rationality went out of the window and he found himself approaching the bed. “What do you need?” He tried to keep his voice steady, but all of the evidence was pointing towards his best friend requesting favours of a sexual nature, and his voice began to quiver. 

John had decided that there was no going back now, and he would deal with the consequences in the morning. He flashed his flatmate a falsely confident smile and practically whispered his reply. “You.”

Sherlock hadn’t a clue what to do next. His mind was racing and his heart was beating erratically, so decided to go on instinct. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, cupped John’s bruised cheek in the palm of his hand, and pressed his nervous lips into John’s.

John lifted his hand to Sherlock’s head and grabbed a fistful of curly locks, pulling the man closer. He slid his tongue along the cold lips of his best friend, demanding entry, deepening the kiss. It was messy and desperate. 

Sherlock broke away from the kiss. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, he shouldn’t be doing this. But his body was already reacting. He wanted John. He wanted to breathe him in, to share his body heat, to explore him. 

He placed a kiss on the smaller man’s jaw, then his neck. John’s head lifted and massaged his hand through curly hair, encouraging him to continue. Sherlock shifted himself on the bed, straddling John’s lower legs as he continued his trail of kisses; over a wounded shoulder, lightly over bruised ribs, finally stopping at the waistband of John’s boxer shorts. 

He looked up as John’s hand slid from his hair and cupped his cheek. John’s chest was rising and falling fast, his eyes were wide and expectant, a slight smile on his lips. Sherlock pulled at the underwear, down over toned legs and onto the floor in a flash, revealing John’s erect member.

Wasting no time, he leant forward, stuck his tongue out hesitantly and licked slowly from base to tip. John let out a moan at the warm contact. Sherlock noted the positive reaction and repeated, applying more pressure. He paused as he reached the head of John’s cock, before taking the tip into his mouth and sinking down. John’s eyes squeezed tightly shut in bliss, his shaking hand finding its way back into Sherlock’s messy curls and gripping them tight. He felt the detective’s lips move slowly down until his whole cock was buried deep, the tip edging towards the back of the man’s throat. Sherlock gagged slightly, and the vibrations sent pulses through John’s body. He encouraged Sherlock’s head up by pulling his hair, and then bucked his hips slightly as he pushed him back down. Sherlock took the cue and bobbed his head slowly, bringing one hand up and supporting the base. 

John’s hand moved to the sheets and gripped them tightly as Sherlock continued the movements and developed a rhythm. He couldn’t remember ever feeling pleasure like this, and it was being given to him by his sociopathic, seemingly asexual roommate. 

After a moment, Sherlock peered up and observed John’s reactions, not breaking his rhythm. Beads of sweat were appearing on the Doctor’s forehead, his fingers were gripping the sheets so tightly that his fingertips had gone white, he was biting down on his lip and his stomach had tensed; Sherlock deduced that he wouldn’t last much longer. Breaking the contact, he gently pulled off. He stroked John once, lazily, before flicking his tongue across the slit; tasting, experimenting. 

John let out a short moan at the sudden move, before bucking up, desperate for contact. Sherlock took him back into his mouth as John pushed upwards, head thrown back, seeing stars as he released himself into Sherlock’s mouth in pulses. Sherlock watched in awe as he felt the liquid fill his mouth, the man below him shuddering through his orgasm. 

He pulled away and paused before swallowing, tasting the salty liquid with interest. John, still catching his breath watched as the detective moved steadily from the bed before reaching over to pull at the duvet, covering John’s body in the soft material. 

The two men caught each other’s eyes for a moment before the detective looked down and slowly wiped his mouth with his finger. He stepped towards the door, pausing briefly to utter a “Good night.” 

John opened his mouth to reply, but before he had a chance, Sherlock had left the room and pulled the door shut behind him.


End file.
